Ghoul (11 page)

"It's gonna rain,“ Steve Laughman complained as they trudged across the field. The tall grass swished against their blue jeans. ”The weatherman on Channel Eight was calling for it tonight."

“Quit fucking whining,” Ronny Nace said. “Christ, you're like a little girl, man.”

“They said there was a severe thunderstorm warning until six in the morning. Gonna rain buckets.”

“So? A little rain never hurt nobody.”

“We could catch pneumonia,” Steve said. “I don't want to be sick in the summer.”

“Shut up.”

“Or maybe even a tornado could blow through. Wouldn't want to be out here if that happened.”

“If you don't shut the fuck up,” Ronny warned, “I'll shut you up for good.”

Steve's open mouth snapped shut. He knew better than to cross his friend.

“We finally got a chance to get even with those shitheads,” Ronny said, “and you want to cancel all because of the weather.”

They continued walking through Luke Jones's pasture, cloaked in darkness and keeping a wary eye out for the farmer's two bulls. Luckily, the cows were all lying down, clustered together on the far side of the field. Thick, obsidian clouds blanketed the night sky, blocking out the moon and stars, and even muting the floodlights on the paper mill 's smokestacks and the blinking, red airplane warning lights on the distant radio tower. They lit their way with a flashlight stolen from a drawer in the kitchen of Steve's house.

“You know what's weird?” Jason Glatfelter asked. "Ever notice how people will run through the rain, instead of just walking? Like if they're coming out of a store or something, and it's raining, they'll run to their car instead of just walking like normal. Why do they do that? It ain't like they're gonna get any less wet. Same amount of rain is gonna hit you either way."

Ronny stepped over a groundhog hole. “What the hell are you talking about?”

"Think about it. Whether you walk or whether you run, you're still gonna get wet.

So why run? In fact, I bet more raindrops hit you that way."

“Dude,” Ronny snorted, “you've been hitting the bong way too fucking much.”

They neared the fence line, and spotted the graveyard beyond it.

“Well,” Steve said, "I'll tell you guys one thing. If it starts raining, I'm running my ass home. I'll be in enough trouble if my mom finds out I snuck out. It'll be ten times worse if I come home soaking wet."

“Pussy.” Sneering, Ronny flipped his long bangs out of his eyes. “We should have just left you at home.”

“Easy for you to say,” Steve replied.

“What's that supposed to mean?” There was an edge to Ronny's voice that hadn't been there a moment before.

“Nothing.” But secretly, Steve knew exactly what he'd meant. He'd wanted to say that it was easy for Ronny not to worry about his mother catching him sneaking out, because his mother worked the eleven-to-six shift at the shoe factory in Hanover and wouldn't be home until seven the next morning; since Ronny's dad had died from complications of Agent Orange five years before, there was nobody else there to worry about Ronny. This was what he 'd meant, but of course, he didn't say it. The last two people that had mentioned Ronny's father were Andy Staub and Alan Crone, and Ronny had split both their lips and fractured Andy's nose.

On the other side of the pasture, a bullfrog croaked in the darkness, letting all know that it ruled the Jones pond. Nothing challenged in reply. Then the night was still again.

“Fucking pussy,” Ronny said again, apparently dissatisfied with Steve's silence.

“Guess we shouldn't expect any less from a guy that listens to Hall and Oates.”

“I don't listen to Hall and Oates.”

Jason grinned. “And Michael Jackson. You gonna do the moonwalk, Steve?”

“Screw you both.”

Jason began singing Jackson's “Thriller” in a screeching falsetto, disturbing a flock of crows that had roosted for the night. They took flight, squawking in irritation.

“Go on home if you want to,” Ronny said, nodding his head back across the field.

"Fly like those birds.

Jason and I will do it by ourselves. Those shitheads stole my bike and left it on the train tracks. It's payback time, man."

“Don't forget,” Steve reminded him, “I'm the one who found out about this in the first place. Wasn't for me, we wouldn't even know about it.”

Ronny and Jason didn't reply. Secretly, Ronny knew that Steve was right, and that pissed him off, because he hated it when he was shown to be wrong about something. He was the leader, damn it, and they should listen to him without question. And Jason stayed silent because he knew better than to go against Ronny, even when it came to something as innocuous as agreeing with Steve in this case. Last time he 'd done that had been last Christmas, when the three had vandalized the widow Rudisill's front yard nativity scene. Even though she'd lived alone, her son came over every November and decorated the outside of her house for Christmas. He hung lights from the gutters and shrubbery and set up a small plywood nativity scene, complete with plastic light-up statues of Joseph, Mary, the Wise Men and the shepherds, several animals, and the baby Jesus himself, lying safe in a wooden manger stuffed with straw from Luke Jones 's farm. People would slow down in their cars as they drove by, stopping to gawk in appreciation at the display-- until the three boys had put a stop to it once and for all. To this day, Jason couldn 't have told you why they did it or what sparked the idea. They'd been sitting around in their fort in the woods behind Ronny 's house, smoking weed and snickering over a crude cartoon in a Hustler magazine, when Ronny had suddenly suggested it. They'd waited until after dark and then raided the nativity, smashing Joseph and a plastic lamb, tossing Mary and one of the Wise Men out into the road, and stealing the baby Jesus, which they'd later hung from a tree along Route 116. During the rampage, right about the time Ronny was heaving the statue of Mary over his head, Jason had suggested that it was wrong, and that Mrs. Rudisill had never done anything to them, and that maybe they should stop. That little mutinous outburst had resulted in Jason being frozen out of the group for almost a month. Ronny and Steve were his only friends, and while it sometimes felt as if Ronny was the general and he and Steve were merely soldiers, he didn't like being lonely, being an outcast.

So now he said nothing. Like tonight, for example. Yes, Steve had been the one to overhear Graco and his buddies. He'd been out hunting squirrels with his old man's Mossberg .22 (illegally and out of season, of course) in the woods bordering the graveyard when he'd come across Timmy Graco, Doug Keiser, and Barry Smeltzer. Steve had hid behind a tree and eavesdropped on their three adversaries, and after they 'd left, he'd looked inside the shed for himself, confirming what they suspected. They 'd first heard the rumor about the three boy's underground clubhouse last winter, but so far, they'd been unable to confirm its location, or even its existence.

But while Steve had finally done that, he'd delivered the information to Ronny and then conceded. Ronny called the shots. This raid was his idea. Steal their stuff. Trash the rest, including the fort.

Jason's mother had once asked him (after he, Ronny, and Steve had gotten in trouble for throwing rocks at cars) if he'd jump off a bridge if Ronny told him to do it. “No” had been his sulking answer.

But the truth was something different.

Yes, if Ronny ordered him to jump off a bridge Jason probably would, if reluctantly, do it. What he wouldn't do was talk back or disagree with him until they were on the way down.

“So are you going home or what?” Ronny asked Steve.

“No, I'm staying. I want to see this fort, too.”

“Gotta tell you,” Ronny admitted, “I thought the whole thing was bullshit. Keiser told Andy Staub, who told Erica Altland, who told Ramona Gerling, and she told Linda Paloma, who told me when we were making out behind the shop class.”

Jason interrupted. “Linda's hot. You made out with her?”

Ronny nodded. "Yeah. She's got nice tits. Let me feel them. But I didn't really believe it when she told me. Didn't think those three had it in them. Graco's a runt, and Keiser's a fat sack of shit. Only one of them with any meat on his bones is Smeltzer."

“The hole is huge,” Steve said. "Wait till you see it. Fucking massive, man! Must have taken them forever to dig it, though. Keiser's titties must have been jiggling like Jell-O while he worked that shovel."

“Well, after tonight, they'll have to dig another one.”

He laughed, and Steve and Jason dutifully joined him.

They reached the fence line and climbed over it. In the darkness, they didn't notice the old stovepipe jutting from the ground less than ten feet away. Had they seen it, they might have investigated and learned of the underground fort 's true location. Instead, they crept through the cemetery toward the utility shed.

They weaved between the tombstones, keeping an eye out for headlights or anyone else, but the graveyard was empty. An owl hooted from somewhere to their left. Crickets chirped in the grass. A tractor trailer rumbled by in the distance, rocketing down Route 116 to parts unknown.

Jason suddenly stopped.

“You guys hear that?” he whispered.

“What?” Ronny turned around, annoyed.

“Sounded like ... sounded like a woman screaming.”

“It was a fucking owl, dipshit.”

Jason shrugged. “Maybe. Yeah, I guess you're right. Just sounded weird, is all. Like it was coming from under the ground or something.”

Ronny started walking again. “Dude, you need to listen to Nancy Reagan.”

“Nancy Reagan?”

“Yeah. President's wife.”

“I know who she is. But what did she say?”

“ 'Just say no to drugs.'”

Steve laughed at Ronny's joke, eager to score some points over Jason. When their backs were turned, Jason shot them both the finger. Then he hurried to catch up, trotting along behind them.

He noticed that several of the graves had a sunken look, as if the dirt were collapsing in upon the coffins beneath the surface.

“Smeltzer's old man is really letting this place fall apart,” Jason observed. “Frigging shame.”

"What do you care? You ain't got no family buried here.“ Ronnie plucked a fistful of wilting flowers from a graveside vase and threw them into the air, scattering them. ”You don 't even go to this church--any church, for that matter. And besides, Mr. Smeltzer's a drunk. Everyone knows that. He's a loser, just like his son."

Chuckling, he grabbed the vase and flung it skyward as well. It soared over their heads and then plummeted back to the ground, shattering on a bronze memorial plaque.

“Dude,” Steve whispered. “We're gonna get caught, you keep making noise like that.”

“Nobody's gonna catch us. It's after midnight. Everyone's asleep.”

“You never know. Someone could be watching.”

“What--you worried God is gonna get pissed?”

“It just don't feel right.”

“Shut up. Let's go.” Ronny kicked a plastic wreath like it was a football and then stalked forward again, leaving destruction in his wake-- uprooted flags, scattered floral arrangements, broken glass. Jason and Steve nervously followed. But when Ronny stopped at a sagging tombstone and began to push against it, they quickly joined him despite their misgivings. It was easier that way. The three managed to push it over, and then jumped out of the way.

“Look at that,” Ronny said. “Damn thing sank right into the ground. Spot must be muddy.”

Steve shined the flashlight on the spot. “It looks dry.”

“Then why'd the ground give in so much?”

“Maybe their tunnel goes all the way out here.”

“No way.” Ronny shook his head. "There's no fucking way those three wimps dug all the way out here. Reiser's a fat piece of shit. Graco might weigh a buck oh five, soaking wet. The two of them couldn't do ten pushups if their lives depended on it. And Smeltzer didn't dig it himself.

I'm telling you, the ground must be soft from rain or something."

Afraid to disagree, Steve cast a nervous glance upward and noticed that the storm clouds were growing denser and darker. They looked swollen, heavy, as if they were about to fall out of the sky. He kept it to himself, rather than risk another round of ridicule from his friends.

Ronny started humming Judas Priest's "Breaking the Law" and Jason accompanied him on air guitar. Both of them whipped their heads back and forth, their long hair flying like wind-tossed straw.

They reached the rear of the shed and made sure they were still alone. Satisfied that they were the cemetery's only occupants, Ronny motioned to Steve. All three of them were excited now at the prospect of getting back at their three enemies, and any individual misgivings they had vanished. Steve showed them the loose boards. Quickly and as quietly as possible, they worked the nails free and then clambered inside. Steve shined the flashlight around the interior. All three wrinkled their noses in disgust.

“Jesus Christ,” Ronny whispered. “What the hell is that?”

“I don't know,” Steve said, “but it's worse now than it was today. I noticed it when I found the hole, but it's stronger now.”

Jason gagged. “Smells like something died. Man, that's foul.”

“So where's the entrance?” Ronny pinched his nose shut and his voice sounded funny.

Steve trained the flashlight's beam over the pile of wood. “Under there.”

“Give me the light,” Ronny ordered. Then, after Steve complied, “You guys pull those boards up.”

Steve and Jason did as commanded, grunting with the effort. Then they stepped back from the edge. With the plywood out of the way, the nauseating stench grew even thicker.

Ronny shined the light down into the hole. Darkness stared back at them.

“How deep is it?” he asked.

Steve shrugged. “I don't know. I didn't go down inside.”

"Well, go now, stupid. We ain't got all night. Gotta make sure you're home before it rains. Don't want you melting or anything."

Moving with obvious reluctance, Steve stepped toward the tunnel entrance, leaned out over the opening, and looked down inside. He snorted, and then spit. The wad of phlegm and saliva vanished into the darkness.